


After Hours

by cuntoid



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, Spanking, after work delight, crawling, god writing these tags is... a little shame inducing, grandpa thirst is real and alive, nasty gross filth, sorry alex, stanley is all roughed up and ready for a good time, the mystery shack after hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 11:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15193658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: Stanley busts in during a late-night close at the Mystery Shack, and suddenly you're not so annoyed about the overtime.





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you always for your support and patronage! This was a long time coming and I always cherish chances to write for things I love.

Picking up after a busy night at the Mystery Shack isn’t your idea of a good time and certainly isn’t worth your meager paycheck, made tolerable only because the Pines family had a room open and a hungry desperation for a summer hire. There’s a thing to be said about breathing in the fresh air every single morning and every late night, seeing veritable thickets of trees everywhere you go, and the quality of people-watching that comes naturally with tourist traps, but there are also things to be said about how horrifyingly filthy those tourists are. If you have to peel gum from the scuffed velveteen ropes around the displays one more time, Mister Pines is going to hear about it at length.

  
An hour or so beyond your scheduled shift, you flick off the main lights so that the only source of it comes from a novelty lamp in the corner, its weak bulb barely helping to lift the creepy shadows clinging to the walls. It’s always like this. It’s hard to be in the shop in the dark, especially on the off-chance that you’re alone.

  
When the door swings open and bangs against the wall, you let loose a shriek that you will lie about to your grave, shrill and sharp as the colorful curse leaving Stanley’s lips in reaction. After you both stare wide-eyed at each other for a beat, Stanley closes the door behind him and dusts his disheveled suit jacket, buttoned crookedly up over a shirt that’s barely tucked in.

“What in the hell are you doing here, kid?”

“Um, I took on the shift because nobody else would, remember? I closed by myself. On a _weekend_ , Stanley. What… what’s wrong with you?” Your fire dies out a little as you take in the condition of his face. One eye swells underneath a painful, purpled bloom, blood still trickling lazily from his nose. His knuckles, even from a distance, look raw and red, one set of fingers gilded by his brass knuckles and caked in the same dull red as the rest of his apparent injuries. “Did you… kick somebody’s ass tonight, Stan?”

He sighs and rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind him and taking a briefcase to the counter. “Just business—no more questions. Get off the clock, I’m not made of money.”  
The gruffness of his voice shakes a tingle up your spine. The image of his knuckles, battered and covered in not only his blood, but somebody else’s, lights up in your mind’s eye like a beacon. He peeks into the case but snaps it shut again as you pass by him to clock out. His eyes burn through your shoulder blades as you punch your code and turn to regard him, lingering, fishing inside of yourself for any reason to prolong your encounter. The old fuck is an obnoxious, manipulative cheapskate, but his attention isn’t unwelcome. The way he sometimes makes a suggestive joke or leans over the counter to mutter something to you about a customer, the way he sometimes swipes your hair behind your ear, his impish wink. None of that is unwelcome. You walk slowly back to the counter, never happier to step behind the fucking thing now that you have Stanley up close and alone.

“No, c’mon… tell me.”

Irritation flutters through his features, pulling his brow down with the corners of his mouth in a disapproving scowl. He looks as though he’s going to tell you to beat it, and then… his frown melts at the edges, turns up into a tentative smirk. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and laughs his gritty laugh, shot through with the effects of years of smoking and drinking and roughness, and the urge to feel it vibrating against your throat while he kisses it is momentarily overwhelming.

“You want a little _thrill_ , honey? Is that what you’re after?”

The flush on your cheeks gives you away, burning bright and furious as stars, as wildfires, and now it’s your turn to laugh. Yours comes soft, charming in its veil of humiliation. “You gunna thrill me, Mister Pines?”

“Oh, I dunno, doll. I’d do more than just _thrill_ ya. Look at me. I’m no good at gentle,” he says, winking. “Sweet little thing like you? I don’t think you could handle me at my most thrilling.”

“I think I’d enjoy trying.” You lick your lips, heart pounding in your chest hard enough that you can see the minute twitch of your shirt. It’s hard to remember to breathe. Your voice comes out whispery, too shy to belong to the bold words snaking through your lips to betray you. “Give me a chance, sir.”

“ _Sir!_ ” He barks the word in a cackle, his pleasure clear in the way his laugh comes all the way up from his gut, slapping his big hand over it as if to keep it from splitting his ribcage. He rewards you with a genuine, disarmingly handsome smile, the vestiges of his giggle leaving him in little wisps of sighs. “You don’t have to call me _that_ —”

“Daddy…?” 

His immediate reaction makes you recoil, the way his easy smile wipes right off of his face and his jaw clenches a little. You tuck a wayward lock of hair behind your ear and summon the words, summon any words, mouth moving on its own without any meaningful purpose. Your sudden boldness rushes out of your spine and leaves you with the most humiliating case of whiplash, trying to decipher Stanley’s thoughts in the span of a second and contemplating your next move, anything that might save you from absolute disaster. How in the fuck can you look him in the eye again? You’ll have to quit. You’ll have to say goodbye to the twins and their funny little friends and never come back to Gravity Falls, lest you ever have to relive this bright, burning failure in the wake of your stupid lust.

A smirk cuts across his lips sharper than glass, more deadly than the bevy of strange weapons tucked in hiding across the property. 

“Now, _that_ … _that_ , I can do. But I’m warnin’ ya, sweet cheeks – I’m not feeling very nice.” He takes one slow step at a time until he’s close enough that a deep breath would bridge the gap. There isn’t enough air in the universe to fill your lungs, frozen empty and useless as you gaze up at him, ensnared in your own trap. His big hand comes up to frame the curve of your jaw, the pad of his thumb scratchy and solid against your bottom lip. The palm of his hand is still wet with blood, smearing across your skin and filling your nose with its coppery scent. “I’m in a real rough way.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Stanley chuckles, turning on his heel and leaving you drowning in place, suffocating in the open air as he puts distance between the two of you. He makes his way to an overstuffed chair, turning to fall gracefully into it before spreading his thighs. He favors you with a wry smile and beckons the hand with the brass knuckles gilding his fingers. 

“C’mon, kitten. Crawl to me. Get on those knees and _crawl_.”

You’ve never been happier to be crouching down on the filthy, scuffed wooden floors, eyes trained on his grin and the way he rubs his thigh, as if inviting you—or teasing you. You’ll settle for anything as long as he keeps watching you like that, like you’re an amusement, a plaything, a shiny new toy. A treasure he could never afford that he’s discovered hiding underneath his nose this entire time, ready and more than willing. It doesn’t feel demeaning to crawl to him, knees whispering against the splintered boards. It feels unreal. It feels like it might fizzle into smoke and you might wake up, twisted in your sheets with your panties soaked, mourning the loss of yet another promising dream about your lecherous boss.

He takes your face against his palm again and it’s like sunlight stroking the petals of a flower, soft, necessary, a flush blooming over your cheeks and down the line of your throat. It takes every ounce of will to resist the urge to lean down and rub your hot cheek against his thigh. You want the scratch of his cheap slacks, the telltale ridge of his cock trapped underneath it, heat whispering through the cloth as private and low as Stanley’s voice as it rumbles up from his chest.

“Oh, _eager_ for it, huh?” He pets your cheek with a tenderness that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Before I give you any sweetness, you better get up on Daddy’s lap and _earn_ it.”

“Over your lap?”

“That’s right, baby, hop up. Pull those pants down. Show me that ass you’ve been teasing me with all this time, let me warm it up. That’s it— _God_ , it’s nice watching a pretty girl take off her clothes.”

You slide over his lap and rest over his strong thighs, sighing with pleasure as your hair falls over your face when you dangle off his legs. His palms feel like sandpaper, rough, scratchy as they rub soothing circles over the curve of your ass. His cock pulses in his trousers, neglected under your ribcage. The presence of it there excites you to no end, to know that you do this to him the same way he does it to you. Pleasure bursts inside of you like frantic butterflies, crashing into each other with twitching, misguided wings. 

“You gotta earn it,” he repeats, giving you the tamest of warning taps. “And you’re gunna count for me, nice and loud.”

“ _Yes, Daddy_.”

“I will _never_ get tired of hearing that.”

You barely have time to shiver at the growl of his voice before his hand cracks soundly against your backside. Shouting the first number comes naturally, their sequence leaving your lips in increasingly shaky gasps and cries, the pain of his ministrations threatening to choke you into incoherence. The band of his brass knuckles comes down with the most bruising force of all. The first ten are over in nearly as many seconds and painful beyond belief, striking chords of lightning-hot pleasure deep inside the basin of your hips. It ripples just underneath the pain like an undertow, a riptide so powerful that even the cruelty of his palm can’t smack it out of you. Each jerk and twist of your body reveals to you how utterly soaked you are between the thighs. You’re dripping, and not only in arousal – sweat and tears run freely over your skin like offerings, as if your body can’t come up with enough ways to show him what you want.

_25_. A quarter, a fourth, a seemingly insignificant number that now measures an entire universe of pain, of numbing, hysterical heat, of sharpness. 

“Won’t be able to sit on this nice ass at work for a while,” he quips. You laugh, despite everything, and he chuckles lightheartedly with you while he traces welts in the outline of his own hand. “Earning your keep in more ways than one tonight, aren’t ya, sugar?”

There’s a merciful dip of his fingers, parting your cunt to trace the slit, and the sound that escapes you is even more labored and agonized than any you’d made during the spanking. You agree with him, ready to say damn near anything to keep him going. The pressure of him stroking you, exploring every soft, swollen ridge and curve and fold, is intoxicating. You ignore the twinge of pain that comes with shifting back to grind against his touch, shamelessly trying to sink down on the length of those fingers. He clucks his tongue and gives you a warning tap on the underswell of your ass, managing to overlap only slightly over the edge of a particularly nasty welt to drive his point home.

“That’s not how you ask,” he teases. “Beg me.”

“Stanley—” Smack. “ _Daddy!_ Please! _Please, please_ …” 

“That’s much better, baby.”

One thick finger slides into your cunt. Muscles tighten reflexively around him just as he nudges a second one in, stretching you just a little too much too quickly. The burn around him is delicious. He thrusts shallowly to get his bearings, wiggling his fingers, spreading you open and testing little taps and nudges to find the spot that makes you melt. And melt you do, sighing and whining as you brace yourself against the need to move.

He keeps you like this for what feels like an eternity, pulling out quick to slap your aching ass when you start getting too demanding, too bratty. His cock jerks in his slacks with every teasing thrust or slap and you can feel the slow, deliberate roll of his hips to nudge it up, and his own desperation becomes clear to you. You shift to help him, to put a little more pressure over his lap, and you’re rewarded with a shudder and a low, rumbling breath, his voice nearly a growl. It forces you to clench down around his touch and he hums. 

“Get on the ground for Daddy, baby. Can’t take any more of this, staring down at that bruised ass, that wet little pussy… I’ve swindled my way into some sticky situations before, but _this!_ This takes the cake, honey.”

The rough fibers of the kitschy area rug rub your palms raw, but you’ve never been more grateful to feel it. Too many times you’ve crawled over this very floor to clean up shop, cursing Stanley and his careless staff and loose practices, his refusal to do any of the actual work, and now you’re biting your bottom lip while the sound of his zipper sends a thrill up your arched spine. His hands smooth over your hips and he pulls you back, nudging the head of his cock between your thighs to rut mindlessly against you. It only takes a few strokes for you to realize how soaked he is as it stains your skin.

The slow thrust inside isn’t anything like his previous assault. It’s nothing like his fingers digging into your skin or the scratch of his body against the raw flesh of your ass when he buries himself to the hilt. He’s slow, considerate. Gentle. He stretches you with each creeping inch and you keen for him, you beg and tremble and squeeze him from inside until he’s gasping. 

“Does that feel good, Daddy?”

“ _Fuck! Fuck,_ ” he hisses. He gives you a gentle few pumps of his hips and leans over to cage you, one arm wrapping around your middle, and he slaps your hand away when you reach reflexively down to peel him away from your body. Stanley is a solid man, he’s broad and stocky and still strong as ever despite his age and the softness of his once muscular frame. He has no trouble keeping you impaled on his cock and held tightly against his body as he works into a punishing pace. “Feels too good. _Jesus_ , sweetheart, you’re gunna milk an old man dry if you keep tightening up on me like that. Can’t help yourself, can ya?”

Just the thought of him filling you up steals a moan from your lips, drawn high and cracked with need. That sharpness splits through the fog and Stan makes a sound deep in his throat that you feel more than you hear, yanking himself free from the tight confines of your body to grab you around the ribs and flip you to your back. The landing is rough, it knocks your breath away and Stanley’s hand is around your throat. The breath he’s stolen from you he keeps for himself. There’s no easing into it; all at once, he squeezes your throat and sinks his cock between your swollen lips, teasing your clit with the slippery head before plunging back inside until your bodies connect. The patch of coarse hair above the base of his cock soaks with your arousal, slicking him, and he tilts his pelvis to grind against your clit as the length of him absolutely fills you. There isn’t an inch of flesh inside of your body that he isn’t stimulating, releasing delicious thrills of electric heat that chase up into your belly and explode, fireworks, earthquakes, aurora borealis lighting you up from the inside out in every little cell.

“ _Thaaat’s right, oh, that’s good._ That’s _real_ good, sugar – keep squirming. Tighter I squeeze your pretty neck, the tighter you get. You want Daddy to give you some air, huh? Where’re your _manners?_ ”

You paw ineffectively at his wrists, torn between the nagging burn in your lungs and the pull of that secret, dark flutter in the cradle of your hips, stoked by the danger of asphyxiation. Gray fuzzes the edge of your vision and you mouth words to him, begging, _please, Stan, Daddy, please, please, please!_

Air rushes into your lungs and your voice rushes out, the dim, quiet air in the shop punched through with your wailing. Stanley growls in your ear, bucking into you hard enough that you bounce beneath him and meet his thrusts. His fingers remain possessively over your throat, free hand snaking between you to stroke your clit. He’s tender and intuitive, managing to be gentle in the midst of the violent hammering of his hips, and it’s mere minutes before the pressure builds up and coils hot and tight around his cock, muscles rippling around him as if trying to keep him inside of you. Nothing gets past Stanley. He laughs low in your ear and hums, five o’clock shadow scratchy as he nuzzles into your neck and sinks his teeth in the soft juncture where your shoulder begins. 

“C-Can— _fuck_ , can I cum? _Daddy?_ ”

He answers only in biting you harder, in the triumphant huff against your wet skin, and it spells your undoing. You cum for him with his name on your tongue, over and over, and the old man is more than happy to fuck you into the flooring to the tune of his own name moaned out like that. Before you’re done spasming against him, there’s the telltale throb and jerk of his own climax, and only then does he release your throat to moan your name against your chest, drawn out as he traces your collarbone with his lips. He peppers kisses over your chest, over the ridge of your clavicle as if he can’t stand the thought of not tasting you while he pumps you full of his cum, warm and leaking out of you as he moves. He rocks the both of you slowly to a halt with all the time in the world, happy to indulge in the comedown at his leisure. His warmth is more than welcome. It’s addictive, the weight of him on top of you like that, keeping you pinned safely to the ground, his chest brushing yours with each breath he recaptures. 

“You know, this don’t mean you’re getting a raise or anything, kid. You’re my favorite and all, but the cost of labor will break my back way sooner than keeping up this fling with you would.”

“Fling! A _fling_ , huh?”

“Hey, after all _that?_ How do you expect a man to just _come back_ from that? As long as you’re dishin’ it up, I’m having seconds. Thirds. Fourths. I’m a greedy man, honey.”

Everything aches once you’re on your feet, and judging by the sounds Stanley’s making, he’s hurting even worse. You make no effort to hide your amusement, grinning at him as you pull your clothes on. He glowers at you and, just like that, he’s your boss again. He rolls his eyes and steadies himself with his cane, hand pressed firmly to his lower back. “What? Something you wanna share?”

“Looks like I’m gunna break your back after all, Pines. Does that mean I can have that raise?”

Stan dismisses you with the wave of his hand as he turns to walk out, scoffing in disgust.

“Beat it, kid.”


End file.
